Tears
by Meepy
Summary: It's hot, she's crying, and she's still making mochi. — Mochizou, Tamako


He walks into Tamaya with a quiet "hello." To his right he sees Tamako's grandfather at the till. Mochizou smiles politely, raising his hand up in a wave.

The old man smiles in return. "Tamako is in the kitchen if you're looking for her," he informs.

"Oh, no, I didn't actually"— He starts, but is interrupted by a loud, "Mochizou!"

He almost jumps in his spot, startled by her voice. Turning, he sees her at the kitchen's entrance with a huge grin on her face. "Hey, Tamako," he greets, his voice notably quieter and less enthusiastic than hers.

"Hi! What's up?" she asks as she walks towards the front of the store where he stands. She stops in front of him, head tilted slightly to the side as she looks at him with her wide, sapphire blue eyes.

"Oh, uh. I just came over to borrow a towel?" he mumbles, voice dropping in volume as he finishes, "Spilled something and I dunno what dad's done with all of ours. So. Yeah."

"A towel, huh," she echoes. She purses her lips in thought, brow furrowing. "Hm."

"There are some extra ones in the closet, Tamako," her grandfather helpfully intervenes.

"Oh, yeah! Thank you, grandpa!" she exclaims, clapping her hands together before turning her attention back to Mochizou. "Come on, Mochizou!"

"Huh?" She flashes him a quick smile before running behind him. He feels her small hands press against his back, pushing him towards the kitchen. He stumbles forward as she directs him through the small entrance and into the room. A fan is whirring in the corner, blowing hot air all around. Boxes of supplies are stacked neatly to the side and he spots some freshly made mochi placed atop a wooden prep table. They don't linger for long, though; she quickly ushers him out and into the living room.

He stands there a little awkwardly. "So, uh, where is it?" he asks, ready to help her retrieve some towels from wherever this closet is.

Placing her hands on her hips, she huffs, "It's okay, I'll get the towels myself. You should sit down."

"Oh, I'll get some mochi too!" she exclaims. With that, she practically skips back into the kitchen. It amazes him how much energy she has sometimes. Sighing, he walks towards the centre of the room and sits down by the kotatsu.

It's not that he doesn't like Tamako's home or anything, because he does. Brightly coloured objects are placed throughout the room, bringing life to every corner. And even though it's not really his thing, the stuffed rabbit by the bookshelf is cute, he admits. Everyone at the shop is so kind to him, too, smiling and making small talk whenever he stops by—well, the times her father is glaring at him or muttering, "Stop calling me 'dad'" aside, though he is honestly like a second father to him.

Warm, vibrant, welcoming.

( just like Tamako. )

It's just that, at this moment, he is not exactly in the mood. It's ridiculously hot outside, and inside—hot enough to_ literally_ cook an egg on the pavement—and he feels a little grouchy, sloth-like. Just the short trip across the street felt like a trek through the Sahara desert under the scorching afternoon sun.

By now, he wonders if the juice has completely stained the carpet.

Moreover, he wonders what is taking Tamako so long.

Normally she returns with mochi almost immediately whenever treating a guest. It's been several minutes now and not a single sign of her or her beloved rice cakes.

He slowly stands up and returns to the kitchen.

He stops dead in his tracks.

( he almost forgets how to breathe. )

Quiet and all alone with nothing more than the whirring fan in the corner—summer has never been a popular season for mochi— she stands there, forming balls of mochi in her hands as tears roll down her cheeks. For a moment he thinks it's just sweat; it is so hot, after all, but he quickly realizes his first instinct was correct. She continues to mould mochi, seemingly unaware of his presence.

But it's not like this is the first time he's seen her cry or anything. Whenever she stumbled over seemingly nothing, whenever she accidentally dropped her ball of mochi and whenever he pulled on her pigtails to get her attention, she would start to sob and her dorky glasses would fog up. But over the years, she cried less and smiled more.

The last time he's seen her cry was during that time.

And, despite the tears, somehow, she seems incredibly _strong_.

( and beautiful. )

After watching her in silence for a minute, he finally says, "Uh, are you crying?"

"O-Oh! Mochizou?" she sputters, hastily turning around to the sound of his voice. She almost drops the mochi she's holding. "Huh? Am I?"

She raises her left hand, fingers stained white from rice flour, and slowly touches her cheek. He supposes it's typical of her not to realize. Just as it's typical for her to smile through everything, _despite_ everything, and put everyone above herself. She doesn't cry for herself, not anymore.

"If you're not feeling good, then maybe you shouldn't be working," he weakly suggests, though he's well aware of what her answer is going to be.

She shakes her head, directing her attention back to the rice cakes on the table in front of her. "No, I like making mochi. It's fun. It helps cheer me up, anyway."

Smiling, she adds, "It was something mom taught me how to do. And used to do with me all the time. She really loved the mochi here. She wanted everyone to try it!"

Ah, today is the anniversary of that day, he remembers now. He remembers how unfair it was that the kind, gentle woman across the street was gone. He could only imagine how much more unfair it was for Tamako that her mother was gone.

"And whenever we made mochi together, she'd hum," she continues as her hands begin rolling balls of mochi again. "It was a really pretty song. I wish she told me what it was called."

He knows exactly what she's talking about, because he hears Tamako singing it all of the time. So when she starts humming it as she works, he knows the beat, every note, every rest. He could even join in, but he doesn't. Singing isn't his thing. Moreover, the song was something special she shared with her mother—perhaps something even more special now.

When she finishes the tune, she turns to him, motioning him over. "Here, here. Have some mochi."

Tentatively, he walks towards the girl, eying her still wet cheeks. "Thanks," he mumbles, taking the ball of mochi from her outstretched hand. Bringing the rice cake to his mouth, he takes a bite.

It's sweet and refreshing, but also crunchy and salty.

"So? How is it?" she asks, leaning forward as she does. Her eyes seem brighter than usual, he notes. Maybe because of the tears.

"It's, well, different. What's in it?"

"I put fresh strawberries in since it's so hot out. And then I added some peanuts to give it some crunch," she explains.

"You sell these?" he asks. It seems more like something his own father would design, he thinks, as he takes another bite. Weird, but not horrible.

She shakes her head. "No, I've been trying to make my own mochi to sell in the shop but dad keeps on saying no to them. I know people will like them, so I'm going to keep trying until he says okay and my own special mochi is out there!"

"Then I'll be your first customer when that happens," he states firmly.

"Really? Promise?" She looks at him expectantly with her blue, blue eyes.

( always, he wants to be there for her, like this. )

"I promise." He smiles.

"Yay!" she exclaims with a sniffle, rubbing her eyes.

A slight chuckle escapes his lips.

"Idiot, you're still crying," he murmurs. He raises his hands to her face, thumbs grazing her wet cheeks.

Her eyes widen briefly. "Ah? Really?"

It's quiet for a moment before she giggles, and with a wide smile, she claps her hands atop of his.

( he tries to ignore the heat that has risen to his own face now. )

"Thank you, Mochizou."

Sometimes, it's good to cry, he thinks.

And every time she does, he'll be there to wipe away the tears.

* * *

**A/N:**

Word, please stop autocorrecting mochi to mocha. Thanks.

Things kinda changed from my original plans, but I think it still turned out decent? Ish? Kind of? Maybe. Not really. Oh, and I apologize for any inaccuracies in this story. And I am so bad at titles.

I want to say this takes place when they are around 13. Or a few years after her mother's death.

Thank you for reading!


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